


Motives

by altilis



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-20
Updated: 2010-07-20
Packaged: 2017-10-11 22:51:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/altilis/pseuds/altilis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris' evening on Vulcan isn't completely worthless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Motives

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd, written during the World Cup for Porn Battle X.

  
  
Most of the time, Chris doesn't like making milk runs to planets that only within a week of Earth. There are smaller ships that could do the same thing, and just because he is captain doesn't mean Starfleet can shuffle into the nearest diplomatic event.

Who is he kidding.

The Vulcans don't skimp on luxury, though it's different than the ice-sculpture-expensive-crystal-too-much-perfume luxury on Earth. There's something rich, warm, spicy, and—despite two-hundred years of relations and those four goddamned years of Vulcan Language and Cutlure—exotic, something that's different from Starfleet-only galas.

He's standing with a goblet in his hand, taking a break from circles of conversation while examining what looks like an extraordinary bonsai when a young man sidles up beside him. A glance—then a longer look—and he's the freshest and youngest face Chris has seen in the room yet, but he's no less regal than the head ambassador himself, dressed in tailored flowing burgundy robes with gold calligraphy snaking down one side. "Captain Pike." The young Vulcan has a rich tenor that is almost completely devoid of accent. Almost.

In hindsight, it always starts out like that: a semi-formal greeting and a trading of names (he gets jumbleofsyllables and 'Spock'), conversation throughout the night and between circles, more information about what Spock is doing on Vulcan, until they finally find themselves alone on one of many balconies sticking out of the main hall like a lotus flower. Chris can't remember whether his goblet is on its third refill or fourth. Likewise, Spock's cheeks are green with what Chris presumes is the exercise of socializing, but there's a small chance he's just affected by the 'non-alcoholic' punch as he is.

"Christopher." Spock's voice has shifted lower, he's nearly purring certain syllables now. Chris' back meets the still-warm concrete wall while Spock presses up against his front, fingers splayed over his formal gold shirt. His fingers tease at the hidden zipper like it's the most interesting thing he's seen in a while, but Chris blinks and the next moment his jacket is open, and hot fingers slide under his black undershirt without reservation.

"Wait," Chris sets his goblet on the high stone wall that surrounds the balcony before gripping Spock's wrists and pulling them away. Briefly, he thinks Spock frowns but when he looks it's replaced by a calm, curious look (and that green blush). "Do you really—" Wow, their hips are pressing together now, and the hardness beneath those robes is pretty damn unequivocal. And distracting. "I thought—"

Chris doesn't really think anymore when Spock leans forward to press a hard kiss against his mouth. There's a real, raw desire to it without the experience with the angle a little wrong, but he can feel the touch of a rough tongue against his lips. He lets one wrist go (it starts to worm under his shirt again) so he can slid his fingers into coarse black hair, and his grip is tight enough so that he can guide Spock into a proper kiss. He can feel pleasure but he's not exactly sure it's his; he knows Vulcans are touch-telepaths, but he's not worried for any codes he keeps in his head because all Spock's going to get is a wave of lust—and right on cue, Spock's moaning softly, driving their hips together desperately.

They break, breathless, and fumble at each other's clothes. Spock pushes his shirt up to get a look at his abs and scars ("Fascinating."), but Chris' focuses on figuring out these robes: a labyrinth of folds and hidden buttons, until he finally comes to a silver-grey pair of underpants, easily pulled down.

Chris wonders if underwear is a foreign concept here or if it's just Spock, and then he wraps a hand around that hard, green cock. Spock jerks into his hand and gasps into his shoulder, clutching tight at the folds of his dress jacket. Chris slides his free hand to the back of Spock's neck, holding him in place while he whispers in his ear, "Can you listen to orders, Spock?"

Spock exhales a shaky breath into Chris' shoulder and mutters back a soft "yes," but he doesn't remain still. Chris can feel fingertips creeping along the edge of his trousers, tugging and toying with the catch and the zipper there. He smirks, and then eases his hand down to rest at Spock's shoulder.

"Go on," He murmurs between them. Spock glances up before his fingers move quickly, learning quick how foreign fabric works until Chris' trousers hang about his thighs, and the heat of that hand wrapping around his cock makes him draw a breath through his teeth. Spock's already so close, so the next move is easy: Chris shifts his hips (and his cock) until he can hold them against each other in one grip. The heat jars his concentration, but the next gasp he hears is Spock's, his hips stuttering so that their cocks rub against each other.

"Don't come until I tell you to," Chris orders then, more breathless than he planned because he's not about to stop Spock—he's never seen a Vulcan rutting up against him, their hands on either side of their cocks, pressed close and hot in the desert night. The frosted doors that lead between here and the main hall don't lock, so there's a sense of urgency there, too, but Chris can't take his eyes away from Spock's flushed expression, eyes shut and brows furrowed, determined and wanton with precision-cut bangs sticking haphazardly against his forehead.

They're groaning quietly together, moving together, pleasing each other, and Chris isn't thinking of the communication he has planned for Starfleet later, or that they still have another one or two hours before this dinner officially ends, or how he should have really asked what Spock was doing here ("research," right). Soon, Spock's rhythm falters, his free hand grips tight at Chris' jacket, and he whispers a desperate "Christopher—" that almost pushes him past the inevitable.

"Yeah," Chris breathes while his hands tighten over their cocks. "Come."

A few more thrusts and then Spock muffles a near-feral cry into his shoulder, arching up towards Chris and pushing towards his hand. Come coats his hand and stains Chris' exposed stomach, and everything is slick (and still hot), a feeling Chris is more used to but can't resist, either. He's not sure how many more thrusts he gets in before he comes, too, biting at his bottom lip to muffle the groan.

After their respectable again, after Spock has wiped their mess with an embroidered blue handkerchief, they still stand together in the corner of the balcony where they stay out of sight from the arched doorway. Spock leans back against Chris as he points out constellations from the Vulcan sky, and Chris keeps his arms loose around young (and he suspects, tired) Vulcan's waist. Neither of them feel like going back into the crowd yet.

"What do you want to do, for a career?" He asks suddenly, after Spock has pointed out Sol in an insignificant corner of the sky. Spock mentioned school before…

An odd silence falls over Spock, but he doesn't pull away from Chris. "I intend to follow a diplomatic path," but something about his tone tells Chris his enthusiasm's lacking there, like he's resigned to it rather than wanting it. "Or, alternatively, I will apply for a commission from Starfleet."

That answer has Chris jerking, turning Spock around so he can look into his dark eyes, which are now confused (but also perpetually curious). "You didn't—?" For a brief moment he feels used, but then Spock shakes his head, and Chris, for some reason, believes him right there.

"No, Christopher. Why would I expend the energy on this activity if it would be easier to ask you directly?" Slowly, Spock guides one of Chris' hands down his body until Chris' palm is cupping Spock through his trousers—he's hard again. Chris can't help but smile and chuckle, and finally he maneuvers Spock back into the wall.

"All right, but just one more time. Then I'm getting you a brochure."


End file.
